


An Uncle's Heartache

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Healing, Hobbits, Hurt/Comfort, Rivendell | Imladris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 15:43:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6430510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tolkien says that Bilbo was with Frodo during the days he was unconscious, when he arrived at Rivendell.  What was going through the old hobbit's mind as he sat at his nephew's bedside?</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Uncle's Heartache

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the characters and events in this story. They belong to JRR Tolkien. I’m not clever enough to write fancy essays about his work so my stories are my way of exploring. I hope he will forgive me any liberties.

Oh my dear boy, have I brought you to this? You look so pale and drawn but at least you’re sleeping peacefully now. You look so tiny in that great bed. Elrond has brought you back from the brink but now it’s just you and me. He left a few minutes ago and the room seems too big and empty without his strong presence. What would I have done if you had been lost? I dare not think of that. I cannot. How could I have gone on living if you had died? And all this is my stupid, stupid fault. I should not have listened to Gandalf. You were of legal age but, in some ways, you were still a child; innocent of the evil in this world. You thought life was a big adventure, and I encouraged your imaginings, foolish old hobbit that I am. Now, instead of fireside tales and silly trinkets to share with your children, you have pain and nightmares. 

You were far too young to take on the burden I abandoned on your doorstep. I can see the chain around your throat now, like a silver noose; the slight bulge of the ring beneath the soft fabric of your borrowed nightshirt. I could take the ring back, if you like? But, would you let me? Even in your fever, you screamed wildly when they accidentally tried to part you from it. I thought you would truly die at that moment. And this is all my doing. Are you doomed to carry it for the rest of your life? Will the Frodo I know disappear, consumed by this thing that sits so heavy between us? Elrond says that I cannot take it back, that it has moved on. He makes it sound as though the thing has a will of its own. It’s only a ring. How can it have a will? Oh, my dear boy. Will you still be my own sweet Frodo when you wake up or will this ring change you?

Will you open your eyes soon? Elrond says you will but there’s no flicker of movement. The thick lashes are still pressed firm closed on the dark shadows encircling them. I remember the first time I saw those eyes, the colour of summer skies. A tiny mite cradled in your mama’s arms you gazed, wide eyed and still unfocused, on the world; your little fist wrapped tightly round my finger. “All babies have blue eyes,” your papa had said but the months drew on and still they shone that impossible periwinkle blue. Won’t you let me test my memory of them against the reality? Did your eyelids move then? No.

Your hand lies cupped in my palm. At least it now longer clenches in pain with each breath. You still bite your nails, I see. How many months did I spend, trying to break you of that habit? But you were stubborn and, in the end, I had to admit defeat. 

Elrond says you have been fighting to hold on to a thread of life, “worn as thin as spider silk.” I have waited, helpless, as you and he battled to hold your soul to this world. He is surprised by your strength but I have seen you fight like this before. Watching you struggle for breath these past days and nights brought back awful memories. My stomach still recalls the queasy feeling as I sat beside your sickbed all those long days and nights, that first winter that you came to live at Bag End. So many years ago and yet it was etched so deeply in my heart that I can feel it sharply, still. You were such a sick little hobbit and I was a crusty old bachelor uncle, unused to looking after children. It was frightening to see you toss in fever and listen to that awful, dry cough. The doctor gave up hope but you would not let go of life. By midsummer you were climbing trees (you have a most unhobbitlike fondness for climbing) and getting into mischief again, the carefree hobbit lad you used to be; the hobbit you should still be. Do you still climb trees, I wonder. 

Your heart was so merry and bright, although your parents’ deaths left a little well of sadness. Will you ever again throw back your head and laugh, in total abandonment, at some silly quip? Will you smile that gap-toothed smile, dumpling cheeked and twinkling eyed? My heart stopped the day you fell from the tree and knocked out your two front teeth. The ones that grew to replace them never quite came together. How you cried when you tumbled from the branch, the blood running from between your lips such an improbable bright scarlet against your pale chin. I tried to hold you but you would have none of me, wanting only to run to the comfort of your mama’s arms. I could only stand and watch, in awe, as her murmurs and the gentle stroking of her hand on your back, stilled your wails in a way that only a mothers’ touch can. And yet that gap is so endearing, a little imperfection in a face grown handsome now. I suspect you’ve stolen a few maids’ hearts with that smile. Is there one waiting for news of you now, back in the Shire?

How I wish Primula had been here to comfort you in these past few days, but she is gone and so is your papa. Drogo was so proud of you. I used to watch his shoulders straighten every time he saw you. I remember the first time he and I took you for a short hike. On the way home you were so tired that he had to carry you and you fell asleep in his arms. I can still see the adoration in his face as he looked down at his son. I have tried to fill that empty space in your heart but I know that the wound of their leaving has never really healed. And now, I have wounded you too. I stuck you with that knife as surely as if I had been there, at Weathertop, to push it home myself. So much pain in a life, as yet, still short. Will you ever forgive me?

Your face is as white as chalk. It was ever pale but there’s dullness to it now that was never there before. Your complexion was always fresh and clear. I remember your cheeks flushed palest pink as you let go your mama’s hand and tottered up the lane to my outstretched arms, not yet fully in control of your feet. I so enjoyed those early visits to my favourite nephew. When you were only a little older you would climb up on the garden wall by the gate, to wait for me, and then throw yourself into my arms, never doubting that I would catch you safely. Will you ever feel able to trust me like that again?

The fever has left dark tendrils of your hair plastered to your brow. Do you remember the first night that you moved in to Bag End? The journey and the excitement had left you so tired that you had stumbled to bed without even waiting for supper. I popped in to see if you wanted some cocoa and found you fast asleep. Your back was turned to me and all that could be seen in the light from the doorway was that mass of chestnut curls, glinting gold where they caught in the candle’s flicker. I tiptoed in to check whether your eyes were closed and tucked the blankets around you. Then I stood watching you sleep, smoothing back the soft locks from your forehead as I’m doing now. Can you feel my touch? Would you shrink away if you could?

Wake up, Frodo. If I could change your waking I would. You should be opening your eyes to your cosy little room and Bag End but, instead, you will wake in this large, pale room. It’s beautiful but it’s not comfortable and comfort is what you need now. What a terrifying journey it must have been for you. Ah, you sighed. I think I saw your eyelids flutter. Please wake up, Frodo. But will you want me here, when you wake? I don’t think I could bear to see those blue eyes full of pain and accusation; and anger? Perhaps I should leave before you rouse. Gandalf will stay if I ask him and Sam will not be parted from you, even though he is weary after all these days and nights of vigil. They will comfort you. Gandalf says there will be feasting soon and that you will be well enough to attend. You always liked a party. 

I don’t think I’ll go. I don’t feel much like eating and celebrating.

Oh Frodo, my lad. Will you ever forgive your silly old Uncle Bilbo? 

 

THE END


End file.
